Phillip Simpson - Rapture

Sam waded into the water, intent on obeying the command, everything else forgotten.

“That’s right,” said the brunette. “Come to us, Samael. No man or demon can resist us.”

Sam was reaching out to the first of them when the sharp retort of gunfire shocked him out of the spell as if someone had just splashed a bucket full of ice-cold water over him. The first of the succubi stood still in front of him, her eyes and mouth open in surprise. Between her perfect eyes, a symmetrical hole had appeared, charred around the edges. She slowly toppled and landed with a splash in the baptistry pool. The other two succubi screamed.

Sam turned. Grace was holding her smoking Beretta in a two-handed grip. The barrel of the gun was wavering back and forth between the two remaining succubi. He met her eyes. “Go,” she ordered. “I’ll handle these bitches from Hell.”

Sam didn’t have to be told twice. Racing back, he picked up his swords, easily evading the grasps of the succubi who now had more pressing problems to deal with. He splashed through the pool and out into the nave of the church and came to a sudden halt, staring around him in awe.

The nave — the main section of the church where the faithful gathered — was massive, over three hundred feet in length with enough room to easily hold three thousand people. Sam had only ever been in two churches in his life and both could have been placed in this space with room for more.

Then, as if a blanket had been thrown across the sky, the light inside this great space suddenly dimmed. Through the huge shattered alabaster windows far above him, the sky had turned dark as if it were night. And yet it had been the middle of the day. Sam sensed the Antichrist’s hand in this.

He peered out across the nave. Rubble from the gaping hole in the ceiling littered the limestone paving of the Cathedral floor. Amongst the debris, fiery symbols began to appear over the circular pattern that stretched out from the altar. Pentagrams. The demons were summoning reinforcements.

His sharp eyes caught movement in the vast space behind the altar. There was a figure there, his features concealed by a hooded cloak. Sam knew immediately who it was.

The Antichrist.

He began to run, heedless of the burning pentagrams around him. Demons starting appearing in them — Lemure, Astaroth and horned demons and others — but they were still adapting from their sudden transition from Hell and few noticed him. Those that did, he evaded or mowed down with vicious strikes with his blade.

He was approaching the altar. Even here, the great architectural cross of the church had been desecrated with blood. He felt his ire begin to boil over and this time he gave it free reign, experiencing the change with pleasure as his eyes began to glow. He would use his anger to fight against whatever tricks the Antichrist planned to use against him.

Behind him, the demons began to get their bearings. They surged towards him but he gave them no heed. His eyes were firmly fixed on the motionless figure before him. He was still fifty feet or so away from the figure when he heard a crashing sound above him. His steps faltered and he looked up, swords poised.

A winged figure was emerging through one of the broken alabaster windows, scattering fragments of glass before it. It took flight inside the nave and then arrowed down to land beside Sam. Sam recognized her with a wave of relief. The Archangel Gabriel.

“Hello, Samael,” she said. “I told you I’d see you again.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Helping you, obviously. I can’t assist you in your battle against the Antichrist, but I can watch your back for you. I’ll hold them off while you deal with him.”

“Surely you can’t hold them off all by yourself?”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Gabriel.

She glanced upwards. Through the gaping hole created by the Colonel’s tank, more angelic figures, both male and female, poured into the cavernous space above the nave. They were armoured in a similar way, their gleaming breastplates in stark contrast to the dark armour worn by the Astaroth. Long flaming swords were gripped in their hands and their beautiful faces were grim. Winging their way gracefully downwards, they landed near Gabriel.

A flaming sword suddenly appeared in Gabriel’s hand, suffusing the immediate area with light. She smiled. “Just concern yourself with the task that is before you.”

Sam nodded his thanks, turning to face his adversary again. He ran forward and circled around the altar, into the immense space that was the Presbyterium. On happier days, the space was used by up to four hundred priests as they gathered around the bishop to celebrate the liturgy. Today, there was only one. Or so Sam believed. Out of the shadows moved two hulking shapes. Astaroth. Swords drawn, they advanced menacingly, their red, baleful eyes fixed on Sam. They lumbered forward to stand before him, just out of sword range.

“Leave him,” said the hooded figure without turning. “He belongs to me.” The voice sent a shiver down Sam’s spine, its tone achingly familiar. “Go and join the others.”

The Astaroth glanced uncertainly behind them before moving aside to allow Sam to pass. His eyes followed them warily, suspecting a trick as they stalked off, joining their brethren in the battle that had already begun with the angelic intruders.

He turned his gaze forward again. The hooded figure hadn’t moved. Sam approached within ten feet and the figure finally held up one hand to halt his approach. Sam cautiously moved a little closer and then stopped, still six feet away.

“I really didn’t think you’d get this far,” said the figure, his strangely familiar voice muffled slightly by the hood. “But I’m glad you did.” With one hand, he swept the hood off his head.

Sam staggered back a foot and gaped in sheer amazement. He recognized him immediately, and the enormity of it made his head swim. The handsome face, the strong pale features. He knew it well.

The face was his own.

PRESENT

“After this I saw in the night visions, and, behold, a fourth beast, dreadful and terrible, and strong exceedingly; and it had great iron teeth: it devoured and break in pieces, and stamped the residue with the feet of it: and it was diverse from all the beasts that were before it; and it had ten horns. I considered the horns, and, behold, there came up among them another little horn”.

Daniel. 7:7–8

“Who … who are you?” he spluttered.

The figure gave a crooked grin, a smile that Sam recognized immediately from his futile attempts to pull off the same expression in the mirror. “Our father was right. You are a little stupid.”

“Our father?” Sam exclaimed.

“Yes,” replied the figure slowly as if explaining something to a dim child. “Our father. Yours and mine. You’re my twin brother.”

“My brother?” Sam echoed, completely stunned by the knowledge.

The figure sighed. “If you’re going to repeat everything I say, then I just won’t bother. My name is Semiazas. We share the same mother and father, you and I, it’s just that I was raised in Hell while you were raised amongst all the other useless humans.”

Through the fog of confusion that was threatening to unman him, Sam started to understand. His mother had given birth to twins but somehow managed to conceal one of them — himself — from his demonic father. Or at least … conceal him long enough for her to remove him from its clutches.

“And our father?” he asked.

Semiazas sneered at him, the face twisting in some way that was foreign to Sam. “You are a dullard, aren’t you? You really hadn’t guessed after all this time? Our father is the Morning Star, the Bringer of Light, the Illuminator, the father of lies — call him what you like. You might know him as Satan. I call him Father. He’s yours too.”